64 A GARDEN DIARY 
CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1899 
[eee was a slight sprinkling of snow this 
morning, yet the garden looks exceedingly 
black. Save for a scarce discernible white line 
here and there, everything in it seems stiff, and 
hard, and black as iron; crumpled iron leaves 
against an iron floor. Black is the livery, not 
alone of sorrow, but of dismay, so that the garden 
does very well just now to wear it. There are 
moments in the individual life, moments, so it 
appears, even in an entire nation’s life, when the 
ordinary scheme of things seems to dissolve and 
change ; when all the familiar landmarks for the 
time being melt away, and disappear under our 
eyes. 
Standing here, staring blankly out of the window, 
I feel myself for the moment a sort of embodi- 
ment of all the other, vacant-eyed starers out of 
windows, up and down over the face of the country 
this Christmas morning. How many of them there 
must be! How many must be staring down at 
the dull ground, and telling themselves they will 
